One afternoon Mr. Horace Dinsmore was sitting in his own room, buried in an interesting book, when the door opened and closed again very quietly, and his little girl stole softly to his side, and laying her head on his shoulder, stood there without uttering a word.
For hours she had been exerting herself to the utmost to amuse the young guests, her efforts thwarted again and again by the petulance and unreasonableness of Walter and Enna; she had also borne much teasing from Arthur, and fault-finding from Mrs. Dinsmore, to whom Enna was continually carrying tales, until, at length, no longer able to endure it, she had stolen away to her father to seek for comfort.
"My little girl is tired," he said, passing his arm affectionately around her, and pressing his lips on her forehead.
She burst into tears, and sobbed quite violently.
"Why, what is it, darling? what troubles my own sweet child?" he asked, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, as he hastily laid aside his book and drew her to his knee.
"Nothing, papa; at least, nothing very bad; I believe I am very silly," she replied, trying to smile through her tears.
"It must have been something, Elsie," he said, very gravely; "something quite serious, I think, to affect you so; tell me what it was, daughter."
"Please don't ask me, papa," she begged imploringly.
"I hate concealments, Elsie, and shall be very much displeased if you try them with me," he answered, almost sternly.
"Dear papa, don't be angry," she pleaded, in a tremulous tone; "I don't want to have any concealments from you, but you know I ought not to tell tales. You won't make me do it?"